_Par._ (_to_ JOHANNES OPORINUS, _his Secretary_). _Sic itur ad astra!_ Dear Von Visenburg Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralyzed, And every honest soul that Basel holds Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say, Just as though Liechtenfels had never set So true a value on his sorry carcass, And learned Pütter had not frowned us dumb. We live; and shall as surely start to-morrow For Nuremberg, as we drink speedy scathe To Basel in this mantling wine, suffused A delicate blush, no fainter tinge is born I' the shut heart of a bud. Pledge me, good John-- "Basel; a hot plague ravage it, and Pütter Oppose the plague!" Even so? Do you too share Their panic, the reptiles? Ha, ha; faint through these, Desist for these! They manage matters so At Basel, 't is like: but others may find means To bring the stoutest braggart of the tribe Once more to crouch in silence--means to breed A stupid wonder in each fool again, Now big with admiration at the skill Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes: And, that done,--means to brand each slavish brow So deeply, surely, ineffaceably, That henceforth flattery shall not pucker it Out of the furrow; there that stamp shall stay To show the next they fawn on, what they are, This Basel with its magnates,--fill my cup,-- Whom I curse soul and limb. And now dispatch, Dispatch, my trusty John; and what remains To do, whate'er arrangements for our trip Are yet to be completed, see you hasten This night; we'll weather the storm at least: to-morrow For Nuremberg! Now leave us; this grave clerk Has divers weighty matters for my ear: [OPORINUS _goes out._ And spare my lungs. At last, my gallant Festus, I am rid of this arch-knave that dogs my heels As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep; at last May give a loose to my delight. How kind, How very kind, my first best only friend! Why, this looks like fidelity. Embrace me! Not a hair silvered yet? Right! you shall live Till I am worth your love; you shall be proud, And I--but let time show! Did you not wonder? I sent to you because our compact weighed Upon my conscience--(you recall the night At Basel, which the gods confound!)--because Once more I aspire. I call you to my side: You come. You thought my message strange? _Fest._ So strange That I must hope, indeed, your messenger Has mingled his own fancies with the words Purporting to be yours.